Shack dwellers march to Cape Town airport, demanding water and use of toilets

Why the stand-off at Cape Town International is only the crest of a wave that began long before the first placard was painted.

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1. Geography of the Forgotten Strip

Imagine a sliver of land squeezed between the roar of the N2, a stagnant concrete drain and a freight yard’s rusted fence. From a jet window fifteen storeys up, the corrugated roofs of Winnie Madikizela shimmer like an ugly metal scar on an otherwise manicured green apron. Pilots descending on runway 01/19 are cleared to fly directly over this patch; aviation charts label it the “inner horizontal obstacle zone,” which means an airliner could legally shear a roof and still pass inspection.

Down on the ground the air smells of paraffin and wet sand. Alleyways are narrow enough that two adults must turn sideways to pass each other. During winter the soil turns to grey mud; in summer, a powdery dust coats teeth and cooking pots alike. Agnes Mashe, 67, has spent half her life here. She raises four grandchildren in a shack that, according to official mapping, sits inside the imaginary cone of disaster. In 2009 the airport authority redrew its plans and marked every dwelling for removal. Fifteen calendars later the maps have changed colour but the shacks remain, proving that schematics and everyday life rarely overlap.

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2. Water, Wood and the Walk of Shame

At 04:45, while the sky over Table Mountain is still ink blue, Lindiwe Mboxo shoulders a dented paint tin and starts her daily trek. A fractured pipe feeds a puddle among reeds 600 metres away. The path skirts a storm-water trench littered with plastic and dead pigeons. Four return journeys give her just enough water to cook, wash dishes and bathe two toddlers. On days when the trickle dries up, she crosses six lanes of traffic and pleads from house to house in Tsunami settlement on the far side of the highway.

Relieving herself is even riskier. A patch of white sand dotted with Port Jackson saplings serves as the community toilet. Women move in small convoys at the darkest hours, mirrors held low to catch the glint of a boot or a lurking shadow. Two months ago Agnes’s 14-year-old granddaughter lingered too long behind the thorn bushes; neighbours found her unconscious, skirt in tatters. Nobody bothered to open a case at Philippi police station - it takes three taxi rides and a “petrol contribution” before officers will lift a pen.

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3. When the Fence Started Speaking

On the first Thursday in May 2024 laminated placards appeared on gum poles driven into the sand: “Private Property – Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.” The boards face the very shrubs people squat behind. Zanele Magida spat when she saw them. “It’s like they want us to memorise the threat while we’re busy,” she said. Children yanked the signs down and used the slick plastic as sleds on a nearby dune; the airport’s security company returned the next day and nailed up replacements.

Legal warnings were not the only new arrivals. A drone buzzed overhead one weekend, operated by a film student mapping the settlement. Residents hurled stones until he explained he was planning the safest route to the airport gate. That same evening Tini Mohau spread a creased Google Earth print-out on a crate. Sixty voices argued over gravel roads, highway verge and the dog-infested wasteland behind Makro. They settled on the service road skirting ACSA’s perimeter, a 4.2 km hike that keeps protestors off actual runway tarmac.

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4. The Day the Sky Answered Back

Tuesday unfolded like a parade. At 10:07, three hundred people stepped onto open ground clutching empty buckets and hand-painted boards. A makeshift band struck up the national anthem; the grimy tuba caught sunlight and flashed like a bronze bell. Minibus drivers throttled their engines in salute. By 11:20 the marchers reached the Engen forecourt within sight of a Kenyan Airways jet being pushed backward by a tug. Somebody started a call-and-response: “What do we want?” “Sanitation!”

The reply came from a stun grenade that punched the air like a whip. A second canister rolled between toddlers’ feet; parents swept children into their arms. Rubber bullets chased people back toward Sheffield Road. A tourist’s video – shot from the multi-storey parking garage – shows protestors never left the gravel. Zanele dropped her bucket, a red welt flowering on her hip. By 11:45 the column was scattered; only the dented tuba remained, lying in the dust like a fallen and white monument to a short-lived revolt.

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5. Paper Trails and the R1.3-billion Silence

Filings pried from three separate departments sketch the same looping stalemate. Engineers designed a “basic services package” in 2018: ventilated pit toilets at R6,400 each and communal taps at R45,000 per stand. ACSA invoked Part 139 of the Civil Aviation Regulations and rejected any permanent fixture within 900 metres of the centreline. Public Works, the nominal landowner, shrugged and asked for an indemnity against future relocation costs. A committee chaired by a provincial MEC met twice in 2021, then dissolved into polite silence.

Relocations dangle like a mirage. The chosen site is Pelican Park, 35 kilometres east and still a rectangle of sand. The City’s own study admits the price tag for moving 3,400 households exceeds R1.3 billion across a decade – money no budget has yet recognised. In the meantime residents receive SMS flyers offering “airport-surplus chemical toilets and one 5,000-litre water tank.” An internal note leaked last year warned, “Temporary infrastructure may encourage further squatting.” The sms campaign quietly ended.

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6. After the Headlines Fade

Thursday night. Agnes Mashe strikes a match to a stub of candle wedged inside a tin. Paraffin ran out two days ago, so samp bubbles on a fire fed with broken fruit boxes. Smoke stings her granddaughter’s throat; both cough until the kettle shrieks. Overhead, a police helicopter sweeps a searchlight across the metal roofs, looking for nothing the residents can name. The beam sways like a second moon.

At 21:00 the settlement sinks into darkness except for the airport’s rotating beacon – red, white, red – slicing the sky every 2.5 seconds. Somewhere far beyond the fence a 777 lifts off, burning four tonnes of kerosene each hour. Agnes’s youngest asks why the planes never drop wheels on their roof. She tucks the child beneath a blanket made from old curtains and answers, “The sky has forgotten our address,” then blows out the candle.

What is the Winnie Madikizela settlement and where is it located?

The Winnie Madikizela settlement is an informal community located in close proximity to Cape Town International Airport. It is situated between the N2 highway, a concrete drain, and a freight yard, directly beneath the flight path for runway 01/19. For aviation purposes, it falls within the "inner horizontal obstacle zone," meaning aircraft can legally fly low over it.

What are the primary challenges faced by residents of Winnie Madikizela settlement?

Residents face severe challenges including a lack of basic services like clean water and sanitation. They must trek long distances for water, often from fractured pipes, and use open, unlit areas for toilets, which poses significant safety risks, particularly for women and children. Additionally, they live under the constant threat of forced relocation due to the airport's expansion plans and a lack of official recognition or support.

Why did residents march to Cape Town International Airport?

Residents marched to Cape Town International Airport as "a desperate cry for help" to protest the persistent lack of basic services and the looming threat of forced relocation. The march was a culmination of years of ignored pleas and deteriorating living conditions, aimed at drawing attention to their plight.

How was the protest at Cape Town International Airport met?

The protest, which involved approximately three hundred people carrying empty buckets and hand-painted signs, was met with force by authorities. Stun grenades and rubber bullets were deployed, scattering the protestors, some of whom were injured. This response highlights how their voices are often silenced and their suffering ignored.

What official plans and proposed solutions have been put forward for the settlement?

Official plans from 2009 marked dwellings for removal, and more recently, laminated placards were erected declaring the land "Private Property." While engineers designed a "basic services package" in 2018, including pit toilets and communal taps, these were rejected by ACSA due to aviation regulations. Relocation to Pelican Park, 35 kilometres east, has been proposed, but the estimated cost of over R1.3 billion for moving 3,400 households remains unfunded. Temporary solutions like chemical toilets and water tanks were briefly offered but later withdrawn.

What is the long-term outlook for the Winnie Madikizela settlement residents?

The long-term outlook remains uncertain and challenging. Despite years of official discussions and proposals, no concrete, funded solution for basic services or permanent relocation has been implemented. Residents continue to live in precarious conditions, with their existence largely ignored by authorities, symbolized by the planes flying overhead and the lack of a recognized "address" for their community.